


And They Say Romance is Dead

by pointyshades



Category: Psych
Genre: Bisexual Shawn, F/M, Kissing, M/M, So Parts of This Are Kinda Silly, Tried to Keep It In the Tone of the Episodes, third-person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2267280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pointyshades/pseuds/pointyshades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For two people who hate each other this much, Shawn and Lassiter sure do kiss a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oh, Benny!

**Author's Note:**

> I know this show is over and no one is really in this fandom anymore, but...I just needed to write this, okay?
> 
> Timeline-wise, this story sort of takes place around the end of season 1. However, it's entirely possible that I will reference later episodes as if they have already happened. My apologies in advance.
> 
> And yes, there will be more than one chapter of this. I just have that many feelings.

Lassiter is having a bad day.

Yes, he realizes that the younger officers think that his every day is a bad day. But today he has reasons behind his frown. First of all, he didn't leave the station until past midnight last night, and was back at seven this morning. The huge amount of paperwork he's already had to fill out today is another reason, as is the fact that the coffee he holds in his right hand has gone slightly cold.

Reason number four is inside the Chief's office when Lassiter walks in. Shawn Spencer, notorious fake and self-proclaimed psychic, is cavorting about the small room like a man possessed. In his right hand Spencer clutches a case file; in his left, a necklace. He's babbling something in a high-pitched voice and shaking the necklace like a baby's rattler. Lassiter is sure that his sigh can be heard in the next county.

"Alright," he demands, turning to Chief Vick, "What the hell is he doing?"

In response, the Chief turns a glare on Lassiter - as if _he's_ the one being ridiculous - and presses one finger to her lips. He doesn't bother to stop the expression of exasperated disbelief that comes to his face.

As Vick rotates her chair back to watching Spencer, Lassiter takes a sip of less-than-lukewarm coffee and turns to look at the spasming psychic. Spencer's friend, Guster, is standing behind him, holding a smoothie and looking concerned. Lassiter raises his eyebrows at him. Guster has the nerve to actually make a shushing motion.

"I can feel her!" Spencer is shouting. "She's - she's with us! Yes, she - she - " He lets out a cry that would be embarrassing coming from someone twenty years younger, and collapses into one of the chairs in front of the Chief's desk. For a moment, silence reigns. Lassiter opens his mouth to speak.

He gets out a "For the love of god - " before Spencer springs to his feet, making another awkward noise, and flings an arm out.

His hand lands smack in the middle of Lassiter's chest, and Lassiter frowns down at it for a second, before directing his attention back to its owner.

"Oh, it's so good to finally have my voice heard," Spencer is saying in a terrible impression of a woman's voice. "You have no _idea_ what it's like being dead! Ooh, it's so _boring!"_

"Dead?" Guster asks. "So you're saying that you're - "

"Ophelia Robins, yes," says Spencer.

"Oh, come on," Lassiter tries to interrupt, but Chief Vick fixes him with a look that makes him fear for his paycheck, so he shuts his mouth.

"It is I, the former heir to the Robins estate, back from the spirit world in this...incredibly handsome...vessel, to tell you that I would never kill my husband, Benny!"

"And why is that?" asks the Chief wryly.

Spencer slides his hand across Lassiter's chest, slowly, making him wish he'd worn a thicker shirt. "I could never do anything to hurt my darling," says Spencer in a voice two octaves too high. "He was so dear to me - his strong arms, his gentle eyes, his enormous - "

"Shawn!" coughs Guster.

" - Enormous conscience. You have to believe me, I would never shoot him...especially not three times! I mean, that's just plain expressive, don't you think?"

"You mean excessive," says Guster.

The Chief frowns. Spencer keeps up his stroking motion, and finally Lassiter knocks his hand away.

"You're not believing any of this crap, are you?" he asks Chief Vick incredulously. "The Robins case is closed. Straightforward murder-suicide. This...tawdry sideshow act is not going to make me believe that Ophelia Robins didn't shoot her husband when all the evidence pointed to her!"

Vick opens her mouth to answer, but unfortunately for Lassiter, Spencer gets there first.

"Oh, Benny!" he exclaims, tossing the case file at Guster. "It's so good to see you again!"

"What - "

The rest of Lassiter's sentence gets horribly lost in the next few moments, as Spencer kisses him.

He is frozen for a good two seconds, which is definitely two seconds too long for Spencer to be passionately making out with him. When the psychic's hand begins to snake its way around to the back of Lassiter's head, however, he snaps out of it. He puts a hand on either of Spencer's shoulders and shoves, hard, much harder than he needs to.

The younger man manages to make his staggering fall into a swoon, and collapses directly into Guster's arms. Guster, for his part, looks utterly horrified. When his eyes meet Lassiter's, he snaps his mouth shut and swallows heavily before trying to stutter out excuses.

"He, uh...you have to understand that Shawn doesn't know what he's doing, when he's in a, uh, trance like that. He probably thought...I mean, the spirit possessing him probably mistook you for her dead husband. That kind of thing can be known to happen, you know, in extreme circumstances..." Guster's babbling trails off when Lassiter glares at him.

Meanwhile, the Chief is sitting stock-still at her desk, and Spencer begins to stir in Guster's arms. "Ugh," he groans, "Gus? What's happening?"

Guster sets his friend on his feet, where Spencer wobbles and falls into a chair, as if exhausted. Lassiter swipes a hand across his mouth and grits his teeth together.

"What the hell was that, Spencer?" he growls. "I swear, I will _shoot_ you - "

"Detective," warns the Chief, and it's all Lassiter can do not to glare at her, too. There is an undertone to her voice that sounds dangerously like amusement.

Okay, he thinks. Deep breaths. Count to ten, like his therapist told him to.

One.

Two.

"Lassie, surely you know by now that I don't remember what happens during a trance. They call it a _possession_ for a reason; the spirit takes over my body and does what it will, in the name of justice of course." Spencer frowns. "Although I do have to ask, why does my mouth taste like overly sweet coffee? Spirits don't usually steal drinks - or at least, I don't think they do. Gus, do spirits steal drinks?"

Guster is too busy casting terrified looks in Lassiter's direction to answer. Shawn sighs and turns back to face Chief Vick's desk. "Anyway, Chief, mind telling me if there's a case here for me after all?"

A slight smile creases the corners of Vick's mouth. Lassiter realizes he stopped counting after three. "Well, Mr. Spencer, in light of what you've brought to the table, there very well might be."

"Great!" Spencer hops to his feet, then pauses. "I'm sorry, I've got to say something here. This tastes like what," he swipes his tongue around his mouth, "Three or four sugars? Definitely more than two creams. I mean come on, to the owner of the coffee I drank...you gotta know that's an unhealthy lifestyle. You're practically _asking_ for cardiac arrest."

"Spencer," says Lassiter sharply.

"Shawn," says Guster in a pleading voice.

"Anyway, gotta fly! See ya, Chief. Lassie." And Spencer is gone in a whirlwind of motion, leaving a case file on the chair and the faint taste of pineapple smoothie in Lassiter's mouth.

There is silence for a few moments before Lassiter mumbles something about paperwork and flees the office, not meeting the Chief's eyes.

"Carlton!" exclaims O'Hara, who of course is waiting for him just outside. He waits for the inevitable tide of questions and the laughter; Spencer has succeeded in making a fool of him again. But all the young blonde detective says is, "You look a lot better than you did this morning. Get some good news or something?"

Lassiter forces himself to look as surly as possible. "I don't know what you're talking about," he grumbles, and as the two of them make their way across the station, he does his best to put the whole incident firmly out of his mind.


	2. Thank You, Eighth Grade History Class

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felt like I should explain - sorry if it's weird for anyone that the characters are being called by their last names, but it is from Lassiter's point of view so...I'm just calling it like I think he sees it.  
> Thanks for reading!

"Is it just me, or is it getting hot in here?"

Lassiter raises an eyebrow. Spencer sighs. "Yeah, okay," the psychic concedes, "That probably wasn't the best joke of all time. Don't I at least get bonus points for humor in the face of painful death by fire?"

"We're not going to die," returns Lassiter, and goes back to searching the room.

"That's great, but unless we get out of here soon, we're both going to be clones of the Human Torch. Except...painful. And less alive."

Lassiter doesn't waste energy on responding. Instead he rifles through the nightstand, looking for - what? What on earth is he going to find in this bedroom that will stop a fire of this scale?

He stops and runs a hand over his forehead. Spencer's earlier statement, while distasteful, wasn't entirely incorrect; the temperature in the bedroom is rising steadily, and it's not helping Lassiter think. He takes a deep breath of hot air and tries to reassure himself with the fact that at least O'Hara and Guster are safe, having left to chase their suspect before the fire was discovered.

His thoughts are interrupted by Spencer, coughing. Lassiter looks at the psychic as he slowly straightens up with a sheepish smile.

"Sorry," Spencer quips, "I'm kind of allergic to dying. So if you could hurry it up there...?"

Lassiter looks at the now-empty nightstand and knows nothing in its drawers is going to help them. "Can't you do something...psychic?"

"Oh, so you're recognizing that I could?"

"Right now, Spencer, I would recognize a Democrat as president to get me out of this house."

Spencer's eyebrows draw together. "But - a Democrat _is_ \- "

"Now," interrupts Lassiter, "Do you have anything useful to contribute or not?"

Spencer shakes his head. Lassiter scrubs the back of his hand across his face again. "Alright," he says slowly. "We're going to have to jump."

"Jump?" The psychic's gaze darts automatically to the balcony doors, open in a futile attempt to allow some of the heat out of the room. "We're like two hundred feet up. That can't be safe."

"Well, neither is staying here to burn to death, as you so diplomatically put it."

For the first time since they started tracking down this goddamn arsonist, Spencer's expression shows a shade of worry. "Uh, okay. I think you should know, before we splat open like tomatoes thrown at a bad concert - "

"Can it, Spencer." Lassiter pushes past him and out onto the balcony. There is a short railing separating the concrete platform from open air. "Fortunately for us, rich scumbags always seem to have an inexplicable desire for being as close to the ocean as possible. If we jump far enough out, we can fall and hit the water, and then maybe we'll make it." Spencer moves up beside him and looks skeptically down at the base of the cliff.

"No offense, Lassie, but do you think you might need glasses? Because I see a lot of rocks down there and very little water."

"It's our only chance." Behind them, something crashes, and a gust of hot air blows out across their backs. Lassiter has been doing a very good job of staying calm this entire time, but now he's starting to feel a little - if not anxious, then mildly concerned for his own well-being. They need to get out of here. He puts a hand on Spencer's back and pushes him towards the railing. "Come on, climb up."

Spencer does so, albeit slowly. He sits on the edge as Lassiter clambers up beside him, and looks down at the roiling water far below.

Although the house is coming to pieces in showers of sparks behind them, for a long moment neither one moves. The railing is hot against Lassiter's fingers.

"Kiss me, Hardy," says Spencer at last.

Lassiter turns his head quickly to look at him. "What?" he asks, trying not to sound alarmed.

Spencer chuckles a little. "British Vice-Admiral Nelson's last words. He was mortally wounded by a French sharpshooter in his last battle - which he won, by the way - and below decks, as he lay dying, he told one of his men to kiss him. That would be Hardy. I just always thought they were good last words, you know? Not too dramatic, just...honest. And it worked out for Nelson, too, because Hardy did kiss him."

Smoke drifts out into the air. Lassiter thinks for a moment. "Kiss me, Hardy," he repeats thoughtfully.

"Okay," says Spencer.

This time, when Spencer kisses him, Lassiter doesn't push him away. He sits still, feeling Spencer's lips on his and considering what's happening. It doesn't mean anything; it's just a manifestation of their desperate situation. Hell, there's no way both of them are going to survive the drop to the rocky water below. Might as well, right? And while he's never been one for impulsive acts, Lassiter kisses back - just a little. Just for the sake of Vice-Admiral Nelson.

Something huge collapses in the house behind them. Spencer yelps, pulling back, as sparks spray out across their backs. He and Lassiter lock eyes for an instant, and they jump.

The water is freezing compared to the heat of the bedroom. Lassiter's first thought is that he is going to die, and his second thought is, why hasn't he hit any rocks yet?

He comes up spluttering before he has time for a third thought, and then the pain hits him, in his limbs and in his chest, where he hit the water. He grits his teeth and spits salt.

"Spencer!" he bellows, somewhere in between breaths. His hair is plastered to his forehead and part of him hopes that Spencer won't answer, because if he answers, if he is alive and swimming beside Lassiter, then they will have to talk about what happened up there on the balcony.

But the universe must really have it out for him, because the fake psychic speaks up almost immediately after him, sounding waterlogged but otherwise unaffected. "Lassie! You made it!"

Lassiter chokes and spits water again, trying to get his hair out of his eyes.

"We really made it! We didn't go down in a fiery ball together, as poetic as that might be...Lassie? You still there?"

He manages to sputter something like a response, gets his vision back long enough to spot a brown-haired head bobbing beside him. "Come on, cheer up," says the head, "We won!"

"We didn't win," Lassiter gets out at last, "The suspect got away. We don't even know who the arsonist is. We almost _died_ , Spencer, and the criminal is no closer to being behind bars!" His arm is really throbbing with a vengeance now, and every time he moves it pain shoots up into his shoulder.

"Yeah," says Spencer, "But don't you think it was a victory anyway?"

Involuntarily, Lassiter flashes back to kissing Spencer. To feeling the other man's lips on his. The two of them moving together in what they believed could be their last moments alive.

No - no. _No._ Absolutely not. Lassiter refuses to tolerate these kind of thoughts, even in his own skull. _Especially_ about Spencer.

What happened happened, and now Lassiter will do what he always does and go straight into denial. He's very good at that.

"Hey, Lassie?" asks Spencer, floating in the sloshing waves. "I said, wasn't it a victory?"

"I think my arm's broken," says Lassiter.


	3. A Little Less Murder, A Little More "Kiss Me"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I shamelessly use this fic to go through as many fanfic tropes as I can, haha  
> Enjoy!

There are few things in life nicer than a successful car chase, reflects Lassiter.

Unfortunately, he is not currently taking place in any sort of car chase, successful or not. Instead he is stuck in traffic on 24th street, knuckles white on the steering wheel and with the beginnings of a pounding headache. He takes a deep breath and pushes his sunglasses up where they're sliding down his nose. There is no _way_ this red light is going to last another full minute.

It lasts three, and by the time Lassiter finally makes it up to a measly twenty-five miles an hour, his headache is full-blown and he's regretting coming in to work today. He hasn't been on vacation in ages. He should have just taken a day off; then he wouldn't be inching his way through midday Santa Barbara traffic.

But he remembers that he has nothing to _do_ on a vacation, so he stops thinking about it and just drives.

Nearly fifteen minutes later - fifteen minutes to drive twelve blocks! - he finally pulls up in front of the funeral home. Slamming the car door with more force than necessary gives him at least slight satisfaction. Lassiter strides up the steps and pushes through the front door.

It's a nice enough place, he supposes. For a funeral home. They probably have at least one dead body somewhere on the premises, which gives Lassiter the creeps. Corpses have no place in a building with as many decorative plants as this one.

The floor is tiled and shining. The walls are white, with a couple of paintings that Lassiter doesn't care to look closely at. He heads straight for the front desk, where the receptionist is talking to a customer with brown hair and -

Oh no.

Oh, _no._

Lassiter has been semi-successfully avoiding Shawn Spencer for the past four weeks. It just figures that he would run into the psychic now, when he has actual work to do and no escape route.

Spencer is already beginning to turn, having heard the sound of Lassiter's shoes on the tiled floor. Lassiter sucks in a deep breath and decides to just go for it, to ignore Spencer and get the job done, then get out of here. No awkward conversation. No conversation at all, if possible.

"What can you tell me about Marcus Ottouman?" he asks the receptionist sharply as he reaches the desk, pulling his sunglasses off and tucking them inside his suit jacket.

"Lassie!" exclaims Spencer, sounding...not like Lassiter had expected him to. The usual excited tone of his voice is replaced by something like strain. Lassiter wants to glance at him, to check if something is wrong, but that would require eye contact, so he doesn't.

The receptionist, a red-headed and bearded man in a vest and khakis, fixes Lassiter with a surprisingly hostile stare. "Who's this?" he demands of Spencer.

Lassiter frowns at this rudeness. He reaches inside his coat for his police badge, ready to shock some manners into the man, but is brought up short by Spencer's elbow jabbing into his ribs.

"This is...Carly. My boyfriend," grins Spencer, and grabs onto Lassiter's arm. Lassiter immediately opens his mouth to protest, and Spencer stomps on his foot, causing him to clamp his mouth shut again.

Clearly something odd is going on here - something besides the complete and utter loss of Lassiter's dignity. He wants to wrest his arm free of the other man's grip, but Spencer seems to be wary, if not downright afraid, of this redheaded man, so Lassiter purses his lips together and tries not to look like he's about to throttle Spencer.

"Your boyfriend?" asks the receptionist, looking incredulous.

"Absolutely. Me and Carly - "

"Carly and I," corrects Lassiter automatically, and then realizes his mistake. It's too late by then, of course; Spencer has surely already filed that comment away, to mock him with later.

 _Damn,_ he should have taken a day off.

"He was just asking about Marcus because he's worried, just like me, about when the funeral's going to be. You know, because ol' Marcus didn't really have many friends, and his family has all passed away...I'd hate for such a great guy not to get the respect in death he deserves."

The redhead looks unconvinced. Lassiter feels Spencer's grip on his arm tighten.

"Excuse us for a moment," he grits, and turns away from the desk, yanking Spencer with him.

They make it five paces before they stop, and Lassiter turns on Spencer. "Alright," he hisses, "What the hell is going on here? First of all, you're not even supposed to be here. There's a suspect here I need an alibi for, and I don't remember the Chief assigning you to help out!"

"Maybe I assigned myself because you've been avoiding me for ages, and Gus and I haven't been getting nearly as many cases as usual for the past month!"

"That doesn't explain why I have to masquerade as your _boyfriend._ This has gone far enough, Spencer."

Something in the younger man's face changes at that, but Lassiter barely notices. He barges on: "What happened before _didn't happen,_ get it? I've been avoiding you because I was afraid stuff like this would happen - "

"Stuff like what?" interrupts Spencer, actually sounding angry. "Stuff like me saving your butt by thinking up a cover for you on the spot so that the man who murdered Marcus Ottouman doesn't pull out the gun he has behind that desk and shoot you? Fine, Lassie, go ahead and chew me out for it, but if you had pulled your badge right there he would have had a bullet through your spine before you even realized what he was doing."

Lassiter blinks.

"And for the record," the psychic adds stiffly, "I haven't even told Gus. So you don't have to worry that I'm going to blab, or get all mushy for you or anything. What happened meant - it meant less than that little tiny dab of chocolate in the middle of Krave cereal. You can't even _taste_ that stuff - it'll be like that with us, okay? No...tasting."

Now Lassiter makes a face, and Spencer frowns.

"Okay," he says, "That was a bad analogy. How about the non-marshmallow bits in Lucky Charms?...The non-Honey Nut flavor of Cheerios?"

"Why are all your analogies about cereal?" asks Lassiter.

Spencer shrugs. "I dunno. Might have something to do with the _serial_ killer who is watching us right now from behind that desk and wondering if he should shoot us."

Lassiter glances back at the redheaded man. Sure enough, he's regarding the two of them with narrowed eyes, his hands out of sight behind the desk. Lassiter turns back to Spencer.

"Alright," he says, "Why don't you go back over there, say something innocuous - "

"What?"

"Innocuous. Inconspicuous." All he gets in response is a blank stare. He sighs. "Say something that won't make him suspicious of you. I'll use the distraction to pull my weapon, and then the situation will be under control."

A smirk tugs at the side of Spencer's mouth. "'Pull your weapon?' That's the best way you could think to phrase that?"

"What's wrong with that?"

Spencer shakes his head. "Never mind. Your plan won't work, anyway. Beardy McMurder over there has his finger on the trigger. One odd move from you and he'll shoot before you even have a chance to...pull your weapon."

As if on cue, the receptionist calls out, "Something wrong, gentlemen?"

Lassiter locks gazes with Spencer. "Are you sure?" he asks.

Spencer raises a finger and taps his temple. "Psychically sure," he grins.

They are both definitely about to die.

"Now," says Spencer, "Let's get over there and ham it up for that trigger-happy receptionist, shall we?" He links his arm through Lassiter's and the two of them walk back to the desk. Lassiter is acutely aware of the pressure of Spencer's arm against his side. His headache feels like a jackhammer inside his skull.

"Sorry," says Spencer as they approach. "Carly here was just feeling a little...apprehensive. He gets nervous talking to people about stuff like this. Death really gets to him, you know?"

Redhead's gaze sweeps over Lassiter. He tries to look like someone who would quail in the presence of a dead body. He thinks he probably just looks annoyed.

The receptionist looks back at Spencer. "And you two are together?"

"Sure. We do the relationship thing - dating, Valentine's Day gifts, the whole nine yards. Now listen, about Marcus Ottouman - "

"I don't believe you," says Redhead. Spencer puts on a look of mock affront and opens his mouth to retort, but Lassiter can read Redhead's squinty gaze and he knows that nothing the psychic can say is going to convince him. So he leans over and kisses Spencer on the mouth.

This time, Spencer tastes like sno cone flavoring, and Lassiter spends a couple of seconds trying decide what flavor before he realizes Spencer is kissing back, is pushing his mouth against Lassiter's and gripping his shoulder tightly. They remain like this until Redhead scoffs, "Okay, okay! You can stop, alright? Sorry I doubted your stupid relationship. You guys are clearly all over each other." He sounds disgusted...but no longer suspicious. Lassiter pulls back more quickly than is necessary, refusing to look Spencer in the eye.

"What did you want to know about Ottouman's funeral?" Redhead asks tiredly.

Several irrelevant questions and a hasty goodbye later, Spencer and Lassiter are standing outside the funeral home, sweating and not meeting each other's gazes.

"How do you know he's the killer?" asks Lassiter at long last.

Spencer raises a hand to tap his temple, but Lassiter glares at him. "Don't give me that crap, Spencer. Just tell me what evidence I can get him on, or did I kiss you for nothing?"

Something shutters behind Spencer's eyes. "His tire tracks are at the crime scene, he works at the funeral home so he can get into the morgue. The gun he has under the desk in there is probably the one that shot Marcus Ottouman. Have a field day, Lassie." He moves to leave, but Lassiter grabs his shoulder, stops him.

He's not sure how to say it, but he tries anyway. "And you're not - I mean, you won't say anything about - "

Spencer gives him a wry smile. "Don't worry. We're the unfrosted kind of Miniwheats, okay?"

Lassiter watches him leave, bewildered. He fishes his sunglasses out of his jacket and realizes that his headache is gone.


	4. Maybe N and V Are the Loneliest Letters

"So do you agree, or what?" asks O'Hara, chipper and smiling and standing at the side of Lassiter's desk.

He blinks up at her; he really wasn't paying attention. "Uh...yes?" he hazards, and she laughs.

"Carlton, you just told me that you think wearing khaki pants with a jean vest is a good idea."

"...It's not?" He's not going to pretend to know anything about fashion. That O'Hara has time to keep up with trends and still cover her caseload at the station is a wonder to him; but then again, he supposes that's just something women do.

Another thing women do - or at least that O'Hara does - is laugh an unnecessary amount. She's laughing again, now, and Lassiter's gaze flickers away, to where Spencer is standing across the room and chatting with a dark-haired man in a sweater.

"Seriously, what's on your mind? You haven't snapped at me to leave you alone yet, and I've been standing here talking about nothing for almost ten minutes!" She leans forward, placing a hand on the edge of the desk and raising her eyebrows at Carlton. "So what's the scoop?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," mutters Lassiter, and looks down at the file he has open in front of him. He flips a page, and his eyes invariably stray upwards. Spencer is grinning at the dark-haired man now, leaning slightly forward, one hand on the wall. Lassiter scowls. "Who is that?"

"Who's who?" O'Hara follows his gaze. "The guy Shawn's talking to? I think he was in here earlier about getting something out of impound...why?"

"Can't he do his chatting up somewhere else? I'm trying to do work here." He flips another page and tries to look interested in the autopsy photos.

O'Hara regards him with amused disbelief. "He's across the room, Carlton. You can't honestly be saying he's bothering you?"

He shrugs grumpily.

She flips her blonde hair over her shoulder. "This isn't about that guy, is it? This is about Shawn." And isn't  _that_ good for a miniature heart attack, until O'Hara adds, "You're still sore about him solving the Fritz case."

"What? No."

"Don't lie to me. I can see right through you. You're _jealous."_

He turns in his chair and looks up at her. "I am not jealous," he enunciates clearly. "Jealous is the last thing I will ever be, about anything involving that fraudulent psychic. Now would you please go over there and tell him to break it up? This is a police station, not a dating service." The dark-haired man is resting a hand on Spencer's shoulder, now. Lassiter's not sure, but he thinks he can see him licking his lips.

"A dating service? Wh - Carlton, they're _talking!_ What in the world has gotten into you?" O'Hara looks rapidly back and forth between Lassiter and the other two men. "Are you really so annoyed by Shawn's success that you can't stand for him to be in the station?"

"Technically, he's not supposed to be in here," grumbles Lassiter. He turns back to the autopsy report and pointedly does _not_ notice Spencer laughing too long and too loud at something the dark-haired man says.

"And don't think I haven't noticed you avoiding him!" continues O'Hara, as though he'd never spoken. "Heading for the records room as soon as he approaches, when I _know_ you don't need anything in there."

"You know what, O'Hara? I think this discussion is over," he announces, cutting her off. She looks at him as if hurt.

"But - "

"Nice talk. Go back to your desk."

"Shawn and I are friends! And I like to think you and I are also friends. I don't like my friends fighting, okay? So you were wrong about the Fritz case, that doesn't mean you can't - "

"It's not about the Fritz case, alright?" snaps Lassiter. "Now go away. I have work to do and I don't need any of your...your feminine gossip!"

"Feminine gossip?" she demands. "Wow, Carlton. I expected more from you."

The woman in the autopsy photos has buckshot wounds peppered across her chest. Spencer is stepping closer to the dark-haired man, smiling crookedly, swaying a little as he says something that makes the other man chuckle.

O'Hara folds her arms across her chest and sniffs. "Honestly, sometimes you can just be so stuffy and rude." She waits somewhat obviously for an apology; not receiving one, her eyebrows draw a little closer together and her lips purse. "I guess you can get your own coffee today," she says in a quiet, haughty voice and turns on a heel to walk away. Lassiter is too busy squinting at Spencer and wondering where Guster is. Isn't he supposed to stop things like this from happening?

It's not jealousy over the Fritz case, and it's not - anything else. Unfrosted Miniwheats, Lassiter reminds himself. It's just that he wants Spencer's irritating face out of the station, is all. And getting rid of the smooth-talking man with the red sweater would be an added bonus. Lassiter's gaze drifts downward, to the autopsy photos and the question of who would want to shoot an unmarried woman in her forties.

Inspiration dawns.

Lassiter stands, not bothering to push his chair in when he strides off towards the two talking men. The case file is tucked neatly under his arm.

"Spencer!" he says brusquely. The psychic turns, confusion and mild surprise registering on his face.

"Didn't expect to see you anytime soon, Lassie," he comments with a tilt of his head. The dark-haired man turns too, frowning a little.

"Hello, I don't believe we've met," he says, starting to extend a hand.

"You're right, and we're not going to," says Lassiter. "Spencer, with me." He clamps his hand over Spencer's shoulder and pulls him over to the windows in front of the Chief's office.

"Wow, did you just actually have a good comeback?" Spencer casts a glance back at his previous conversation partner. "I'm impressed."

Lassiter doesn't respond, just shoves the case file against Spencer's chest. "Tamara Slythe, age 47, found dead Monday morning. Her apartment was trashed and the murder weapon was on the premises, but clean of fingerprints. Our main suspect is the ex-boyfriend, Devin O'Connors."

Spencer makes an exaggerated noise of surprise. "A case? For me? Lassie, you shouldn't have."

"Report back to me. Don't do anything on your own, you hear me?"

"I'm not deaf," says Spencer. "One question, though - does the whole 'don't do anything on your own' rule apply to solitaire?"

"What?"

"Well, ordinarily the name of the game is to play it on your own. Although I suppose we could try two-player solitaire if you really wanted." Spencer looks thoughtfully off into space. "Maybe two decks of cards? Ooh, Speed Solitaire! Whoever finishes first wins - "

"Oh, just solve the case, will you?" Lassiter turns and walks away, exasperated.

"Will I get paid?" Spencer calls after him.

"Don't push it!" he retorts without looking back.

He even finds himself feeling mildly annoyed by Spencer's lack of attention span, and that's good. Irritation is preferable to anything else; it's just business. Unfrosted Miniwheats, thinks Lassiter, and watches with satisfaction as the dark-haired man in the red sweater sullenly leaves the station.


	5. He Hates Me, He Hates Me Not

"It's a genuine motive, Gus! Come on, you can't tell me you wouldn't kill this man out of sheer mustache envy."

"I wouldn't."

"What?" The psychic looks again at the autopsy photo he's holding in his right hand. "That can't be right. I must have misheard you."

"I said no, Shawn. I would never kill a man over facial hair."

"Not even Nick Offerman?"

"I am perfectly capable of growing a spectacular mustache if I wanted to. I don't need violence to prove my masculinity," says Guster haughtily.

"Wh - hold on." Spencer turns a quick circle, pointing at O'Hara and Lassiter. "You guys are hearing this, right? There is no way in a million years, Gus, that you would ever be able to grow a good mustache. You wouldn't get up to Bradley Cooper stache level, and that's a pretty low bar."

"I would too."

"You can't even grow hair on your _head!"_

"Oh, for the love of sweet lady justice!" exclaims Lassiter in frustration. "Neither of you would be able to carry off facial hair worth a damn! Now would you stop your childish arguing and tell us about your lead?" He carefully avoids the word 'vision.' "Or at least the one you _claimed_ to have when you called us in here?"

Spencer and Guster turn slowly to face him. "Neither of us?" asks Spencer with disbelief.

"Uh-uh," says Guster, shaking his head.

"That's just a bald-faced lie."

"Bald-faced," says Lassiter with some relish, "Is exactly what the two of you are going to be for the rest of your lives. You wouldn't even begin to know how to take care of a mustache."

"What, and you would?" accuses Spencer. At Lassiter's side, O'Hara raises an eyebrow.

"As someone who has actually _had_ facial hair in the past - " Lassiter begins, but is cut off by the sudden mad flailing of Spencer and Guster.

"Ewww!" cries Spencer. "You mean besides that horrid civil war-themed atrocity you glue on once a year? I thought that thing was just to make sure no one developed too high an opinion of you!"

Guster's eyes are squeezed shut and he is shaking his head at a speed that has to be bad for his brain, or at least his neck. "No," he says. "No. I did not need to picture Lassiter with a beard. That's just _wrong."_

Lassiter turns to O'Hara. "Honestly," he says with exasperation, but there is a twinkle in her eye that makes him doubt whether she's on his side.

"There's an old station photo on the wall in one of the back rooms," she says with a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "You do look pretty ridiculous with a mustache, Carlton."

He just shakes his head, unable to believe this latest betrayal. "Ridiculous?"

Her smile breaks into a full-on grin. "Almost goofy."

It's the Chief, with a clearing of her throat and a stern look, who finally breaks up the hysterics. Lassiter wasn't laughing - of course he wasn't - but when the Chief glances his way he makes sure his face is sternly schooled anyway. It wouldn't do to start getting a reputation for frivolity around the station.

Later, when it's past 1 am and Spencer has just broken his pencil for the third time writing his witness statement, Lassiter almost wishes they could go back to the frivolity of earlier. Anything would be better than the stress and exhaustion-fed short tempers they're dealing with now.

The station is empty except for the four of them and Dobson, who is down in the interrogation room trying to get a confession out of their suspect. It's a rather pointless task; they have enough evidence to put the man away for years anyway, but Dobson is determined to see the job through to the end. Lassiter left him and O'Hara to it about twenty minutes ago, deciding to come upstairs instead and make sure Spencer and Guster had finished their witness statements.

Of course, he had found Guster sleeping and Spencer demolishing a box of powdered sugar-topped donuts he'd found somewhere in the station. Now, three pencils and a cup of bitter coffee later, Lassiter is getting pretty fed up.

The only sound Spencer makes is a quiet "Oh no," but it's enough to set Lassiter off. He looks up from the police report he's filling out and fixes his glare on the younger man.

"Just write the damn statement," he hisses. Spencer looks up at him with wide, innocent eyes and holds up his pencil.

"But Lassie," he says, "My pencil's broken."

"I can see that," grits Lassiter. "And I can also see three other pens on this desk that you could easily use without stopping to bother me."

"I didn't want to take things off your desk without asking permission." Spencer grabs for one of the pens, his hand brushing Lassiter's on its way past. His skin is smooth and warm and Lassiter hates himself for noticing that in the fraction of a second that their hands make contact. "But now that I know you're 100% okay with that, I'll make sure to keep doing it."

"I'm not - "

"85% okay," amends Spencer. "Speaking of okay, have you seen Gus lately? He got up to go to the bathroom a while ago and I haven't seen him since. I think he might have fallen asleep on the toilet. He has been known to do that, you know, whenever he doesn't get his full 9 hours of sleep. One time he fell asleep while we were watching Con Air and missed the entire family reunion scene."

Spencer takes a breath, obviously ready to continue with his tirade of useless information, but Lassiter cuts him off. "Spencer, it is 1:45 in the morning. I have paperwork to fill out, and I would like to at least be able to go home and change clothes before I have to be back here for work at 9. So I would appreciate it if you would write your witness statement, and _shut your mouth_."

"Why don't you shut it for me?" Spencer answers almost automatically.

Lassiter blinks at him for a moment, then decides the best course of action is to pretend Spencer didn't just say that. It's just tension and stress, he tells himself, getting the better of both of them. The warmth of Spencer's hand - the tension that seems to fill the space between them - it's nothing. He clears his throat. "After O'Hara gets back from the interrogation room," he says, reaching for his coffee mug, "I'll go look for Guster. Until then I've got to babysit you, so unless you want to be here all night, you better get writing."

Surprisingly, Spencer does write a few words. Lassiter is just getting back to his report when the psychic interrupts him again, frowning. "Are you sure you should be the one to get Gus? I mean, I'm his best friend and you're just a surly detective he happens to know. Not the sort of person he'd want barging in on him if he is in fact napping on the porcelain throne..."

"There are stalls," says Lassiter, disgusted. "I'll knock."

"I'm just saying, I should be the first face he sees when he wakes up from his beauty sleep. Why don't I just go get him? This report isn't even due until the morning, so  - "

"It was due an hour ago, which is when it stopped being the day of the witnessed crime and started being the day after."

"I've heard it both ways. What I'm saying is, I'll go get Gus, you can stay here with your stuffy witness reports and crime paperwork, and then - "

Lassiter kisses him. The psychic stutters to a halt, all notions of Guster and paperwork apparently deserting him. His hand lands on Lassiter's arm, warm and soft, and he kisses back with a force that is surprising.

So this, Lassiter thinks briefly, is how to shut Spencer up.

They kiss, Spencer's lips smearing powdered sugar onto Lassiter's, and when they pull apart, Spencer is wide-eyed and breathless.

"Now," says Lassiter, "I want you to pick up that pen and write that witness statement out for me, and when you're done, you can go tell Guster to get his ass over here. Understood, Spencer?"

Spencer picks up the pen. "I think after that, you could at least call me Shawn," he says.

When O'Hara gets back, she looks at the white powder on both of their faces and exclaims, with some dismay, "You two ate all the donuts without me?"

"Yeah," says Spencer - Shawn - with a glance at Lassiter. "Yeah, something like that."


	6. Needs More AC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a little shorter, sorry...and it doesn't really accomplish anything, plot-wise. (Not that there was too much plot in this fanfic beforehand, haha) But I just thought I'd post it anyway, because it was a fun scene to write and I like it. c:  
> Thanks everyone for reading, and thank you sooo much to the people who left comments. You have no idea how much that means to me :D

The hot sun beats down on the parking lot outside of the Ocean Waves apartment building. Lassiter, sunglasses on, doesn't have to shield his eyes against the glare, but many of the other cops moving about the crime scene are squinting. The breeze is minimal and it's only 9 am. Lassiter dreads to think what it's going to be like later, when the sun is fully overhead and the concrete has spent hours absorbing its rays.

He decides it would be a good idea to spend some time inside the air-conditioned station later today. Organizing files, maybe. He thinks he has some reports to catch up on.

"Forensics has their preliminary results," says O'Hara in way of greeting, walking over from where a young woman's body is laid out on the pavement. "Do you want them now, or...?"

"Lay 'em on me," says Lassiter, and O'Hara obediently begins to recite.

"Our vic is one Anne Rodriguez, twenty-six years old and living full-time in Santa Barbara. She worked at the local Red Robin as a waitress up until last Tuesday, when she abruptly stopped coming to work. This morning, around 8 am, the manager of the building found her body out here. She evidently fell from the fourth floor and died on impact."

"Hmm. Sounds like a straight suicide to me," says Lassiter, rubbing a hand over his chin.

O'Hara nods. "That's what I thought, too. Should we wrap it up?"

Lassiter opens his mouth to say yes, but then an all-too-familiar shout makes itself heard from behind him.

"No, Gus, I can feel it! Someone is definitely jumping to false conclusions at this crime scene! I can't stop myself - I have to - have to help!" Lassiter turns around just in time to see Spencer - Shawn - duck under the tape at the edge of the crime scene and come jogging over.

"Go away," he says as Shawn comes to a halt. The psychic puts a hand to his heart and looks offended.

"Lassie! What kind of greeting is that? I thought our relationship meant more to you." Lassiter's heart leaps in brief panic, but Shawn keeps talking, turning to O'Hara and cracking a joke without missing a beat. Of course, he thinks. It hadn't meant anything; just more of Spencer's - Shawn's? - pointless babble. Besides, they don't have a relationship, just a series of mistakes and a bad cereal analogy.

"Listen, Jules," Shawn is saying, an earnest expression on his face, "Gus refuses to cross under the tape unless someone gives him express permission. He thinks it's illegal. I told him to just climb over if going under bothered him so much, but he's still claiming that he pulled something in his tap-dancing class the other day, which is ridiculous. His leg was just fine when he decided to sprint past me and buy the last Rainbow Swirly from the ice cream man this morning. Anyway, do you think you could just, I don't know, shout in his direction? Or you could give him a thumbs up. Anything, really - even a sort of ambiguous smile would do."

"Actually, it is illegal," Lassiter cuts in, "And Guster has the right idea. You can't just barge into a crime scene like this."

"Why not?" Shawn shrugs exaggeratedly and looks around. "Do you see anyone getting bothered?"

Lassiter almost replies, but decides at the last second that he's being goaded into a childish response. Instead he just sighs and adjusts his sunglasses. "Doesn't matter. There's nothing to see here, anyway. Unless you enjoy looking at a promising young woman's brains spattered across the pavement."

"Ew," say Shawn and O'Hara almost simultaneously. O'Hara casts a scandalized look at Lassiter. "A woman committed suicide here, Carlton, there's no need to be gross."

"I'm just saying, there's no need to drag Guster into a situation where he's going to want to puke his guts out for nothing. As O'Hara said, this is a suicide. There's no need for your...talents here."

"Oh, I'd say there's always a need for some of my talents," grins Shawn, staring right at Lassiter. He licks his lips - not that Lassiter was looking.

O'Hara, oblivious, doesn't seem to notice how Lassiter sputters to a halt. "He's right, Shawn. It's sad, but sometimes people commit suicide. There's no evidence that would point to anything else in this case. So unless you've had any specific visions - " Lassiter snorts. " - pertaining to Anne Rodriguez's death, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Aww, Jules," whines Shawn, "Don't be like that." When she doesn't respond, he turns on Lassiter, grabbing his arm and practically hanging off it. "Pleeeeease, Lassie, the spirits are telling me I need to be at this crime scene!"

"More like your empty wallet is telling you." Lassiter shakes Shawn off.

With a huffy sigh, the psychic gives up. "Fine," he pouts, "But you're gonna regret not having me around. Bye Jules. Bye, Lassie," and was that a _wink?_

O'Hara obviously thinks it was, because she stares after Shawn as he goes, wondering aloud, "I wonder what that was about? Do you think he knows something he's not telling us?"

He knows something he's not telling _you,_ thinks Lassiter, but he doesn't say it. "I doubt any of us will ever know what goes on in Shawn's head," he mutters. The departing psychic ducks under the yellow tape and immediately enters into an animated discussion with Guster, who seems to be angry about something or other. Lassiter sighs and turns away, walking back towards where Anne Rodriguez's body is splayed across the sun-heated asphalt. O'Hara follows.

"Hey," she says suddenly, "When did you start calling Shawn by his first name?"

Lassiter thanks God for sunglasses, as they allow him to shrug without O'Hara seeing how he's avoiding her gaze.


	7. Are You There, Murderer? It's Me, Shawn Spencer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be duly warned - this chapter is a little less happy-go-lucky than the others. That's just how it wound up, sorry.  
> Also, I know next to nothing about guns. Any false information in this chapter is because of that ignorance.  
> Enjoy!

"...And he still had the _nerve_ to ask me out afterwards!" O'Hara exclaims. She looks over at Lassiter, expecting a response.

He's been listening this time - he really has - but somewhere between the spilled cup of coffee and O'Hara's green tank top he got a little lost, a little confused, and now he's not sure how this story came together for a resolution. He knows he was listening, though. Not thinking of a certain psychic and the way his eyes glint and the softness of his lips -

Crap.

Lassiter missed the cue, apparently, because O'Hara is frowning a little. "It's okay," she says. "You don't have to pretend to be interested, Carlton."

"It's not that," he protests, but she shakes her head, a small smile forming.

"Seriously, it's fine. I know you're probably just wishing I would shut up so we could focus on the stakeout."

The stakeout. That's why Lassiter is holding a pair of binoculars in his left hand, resting against his knee. He looks down at them, then up over the dashboard of the car, out into the night. The house across the street from them has a single light on beside the door.

"Right," Lassiter says. "The stakeout. It's important. If we can catch DeGrassio tonight, we won't have to worry about him leaving the state tomorrow."

O'Hara looks at him with a mix of mild amusement and puzzlement. "I know, remember? I was there at the briefing you gave. Carlton, is everything alright?"

"What?"

"Well, you've been acting kind of weird lately." She seems to anticipate an argument and rushes to continue. "Not - not really in a bad way. Just...different. A little off sometimes, like you're distracted. Is something going on?"

He stares out at the solitary light. He thinks about Shawn and unfrosted Miniwheats and Vice-Admiral Nelson.

"I'm your partner, Carlton," says O'Hara gently. "You can tell me."

He startles a little at the sound of her voice; he's been quiet too long. _Damn_ this. Maybe he should tell O'Hara. She'll laugh him out of his delusion; doing these sorts of things with Shawn Spencer is one of the worst decisions he's ever made. It has to be.

He doesn't even realize it, but he's opening his mouth, teetering towards telling her when one of the car doors opens and someone slides into the backseat.

Lassiter reacts instantly, dropping the binoculars and pulling his gun from its holster. He's turned and aimed at the backseat in the time that it takes O'Hara to grab for her own weapon. "Who's there?" barks Lassiter. "This is a police vehicle!"

"I know," says Shawn's voice out of the darkness, "Or I wouldn't have climbed in. Relax, Lassie, I'm not here to murder you."

Lassiter lowers his gun and says, with pure exasperation, "Do you have to show up _everywhere_ , Shawn?"

"No, don't be ridiculous. That would be statistically impossible. I have been known, however, to show up at Comic Con, various ice-cream establishments, and police vehicles with attractive detectives in them." Lassiter can tell from the tone of his voice that Shawn is grinning. He sighs and turns back to the front, raises his binoculars to peer at the light beside DeGrassio's front door. A flickering streetlamp is the only other source of light on the street.

"So, Jules," Shawn says from the backseat. "What's up?"

"Oh, not much." She's looking forward now, too. "Actually, yesterday this guy came up to me in a coffee shop and he - " She stops herself. "What are you doing here, Shawn?"

"I told you that. Dark car? Attractive detective?"

She sighs, but only half-seriously. "I've told you before, I don't do work relationships."

"Bummer, but maybe I wasn't talking about - "

"Dogs!" coughs Lassiter.

He can feel both of their confused gazes on him; he fumbles for something to explain his interruption. "I, uh. What you were talking about earlier, O'Hara? I - I got a dog. Yeah. A, uh...hound."

"Really?" O'Hara asks brightly. "That's great, Carlton! What did you name it? Is it a girl or a boy? Ooh, are you going to bring it to the station sometime?"

"Uh...I haven't thought of a name yet."

"What? How long have you had it? I mean, you've been acting like this for at least a couple of months..."

"I've...had it a while, yeah."

"Why didn't you tell me? And how could you not name it? The poor thing is probably confused!"

"You should name it Lassie," puts in Shawn. Something in his tone sounds sarcastic. Does he realize Lassiter has just invented this dog in order to keep O'Hara in the dark about what's been happening with him and Shawn? Probably - Shawn usually seems to know lots of things he shouldn't.

"Is it a boy? Oh, you should totally name it Jasper if it's a boy!" exclaims O'Hara. "My cousins used to have the most adorable Australian shepherd named Jasper. He would fetch, and if you threw a stick in a pond for him, he'd jump right out there and swim after it! Ooh, or you could name it Waldo!"

"Waldo, Jules? So every time the dog gets off its leash, Lassie can act out a popular children's book? Maybe he should just put glasses and a red striped hat on the thing and call it a day."

"Fine, not Waldo. I don't see you coming up with anything better, Shawn!"

"John Jacob Jingleheimer the Third."

"How about Tag?"

"Name it 'Lassiter's Rapidly Fading Dignity Forces Him To Fabricate A - '"

"Shut up, both of you!" exclaims Lassiter. "I'll name the thing what I want to, when I want to. Just...stop bothering me about it, okay?" He's already regretting this. Why couldn't he have interrupted Shawn with something more explainable? Like claiming he saw something going on at the DeGrassio residence?

The DeGrassio residence.

For the second or third time tonight, Lassiter wants to smack himself. He picks up his binoculars and peers at the house again; it looks like nothing has changed, but who knows what could have happened while they were having this idiotic argument? DeGrassio could have left, or realized they were staking him out and gone out the back door...Lassiter sighs.

"I still can't believe you didn't tell me," says O'Hara.

"My apologies," growls Lassiter. "Listen, I think DeGrassio might have cottoned on to the plan. Possibly he saw Shawn sneaking into our supposedly unoccupied vehicle." He glares.

Shawn snorts. "Puh- _lease._ I could see you guys staking out from a mile away. You've got a bright white coffee cup right on the dashboard!"

Lassiter grabs the offending beverage and sticks it in a cupholder. "I think we're going to have to improvise," he continues, as if Shawn hadn't interrupted. "O'Hara, I'll go around back. You check the garage and the shed, then meet up with me at the front again if neither of us finds him. If he's not in the house, then we know the stakeout is pointless anyway and we can head back to the station with nothing lost. Got it?"

"Got it," says O'Hara. She grabs her gun and opens the car door.

"Hey, what about me?" asks Shawn.

"What do you think? Stay here," says Lassiter, wrapping his fingers around his gun. "And don't do anything stupid."

"Can you at least leave the keys so I can listen to the radio?"

"Absolutely not." Lassiter closes the door as quietly as possible and moves towards the house, gun in hand. O'Hara is already across the street.

Lassiter isn't sure what he's expecting, but he can't say he's surprised when Shawn shows up out of the shadows just as he's about to kick in the back door. He is annoyed, though. "Spencer!" he hisses. "What are you doing here?"

"What happened to Shawn?" asks the psychic. "Man, Lassie, I thought we were making strides here."

"Shut up and go back to the car. This is no place for you. It's dangerous in there."

"The spirits guide me where I must go, Lassie." In the darkness, Lassiter can vaguely see Spencer making that dumb finger-to-temple motion and he shakes his head.

"You're slowing me down. Just get out of here, would you?"

The two of them are still glaring at each other when the door swings open and DeGrassio appears from inside, a gun aimed squarely at Lassiter. "Drop the weapon, cop," he growls in a deep, gravelly voice.

Lassiter's hands tighten, his knuckles going white where he grips his gun. "SBPD," he snaps. "You're going to jail, DeGrassio. Put down your gun and nobody gets hurt."

"Put down yours," repeats DeGrassio with a jerk of his chin, "And I won't make this painful for you."

Shawn shifts a little where he's standing, one shoulder against the doorframe, and DeGrassio's gun swings to him. "Who the hell's this?" he demands. His gaze runs up and down the psychic, taking in his lack of weapon. "Who are you?" the criminal says again, this time asking Shawn directly.

Don't answer, Lassiter wills him. Unfortunately, a few poorly thought-out kisses are not enough to allow mind-to-mind telepathy, so of course Shawn opens his big mouth and answers.

"I'm Shawn Spencer, Head Psychic for the Santa Barbara Police Department," he says casually, as if there wasn't a gun pointed at his forehead right now. "This here is my detective friend Lassiferous, killer of a hundred men and jailer of a thousand more."

"Shawn," growls Lassiter.

DeGrassio narrows his eyes. "Psychic, eh?" he asks. "Bullshit. You're hiding something. Both of you get down on your knees before I shoot you."

Lassiter keeps his gun pointed at DeGrassio. In his mind's eye, he's seeing Shawn shot, seeing him bleeding out on the ground while Lassiter struggles to corner DeGrassio. He sees the carefully-groomed hair a mess, sees blood spotting the cheerful features and blood leaking from the corner of those warm, soft lips. He sees Shawn dying and he does something that he hasn't done in a long time: he freezes. He turns into the perfect statue of a detective, standing there in the dark at a murderer's back door, completely unable to move the hands that hold his gun. Sweat beads at his hairline.

"I said get down!" roars DeGrassio. He brandishes the gun, starts to turn it on Lassiter again.

"Wait!" shouts Shawn. His hand goes to his temple. The gun stays on him. "I'm sensing something! I'm getting - military! Yes, the army! I'm getting sand, and dirt, and blood! And something else, something with us at this very moment...yes!" He extends his arm, not quite touching the gun that DeGrassio holds. The criminal stiffens and Lassiter can see, even in the darkness, his finger clenching on the trigger.

Shawn's eyes snap up to meet DeGrassio's. "It's this gun!" he exclaims. "This is the gun you had with you in Afghanistan! When you were in the army...when you lost someone, very close to you. That's what inspired you to start killing, back home in Santa Barbara. You took out everyone who badmouthed your friend, everyone they'd ever had a negative interaction with! And then, when the police started catching on to you...you panicked. You tried to kill someone else, the worker at the gas station, to throw them off the trail - but you botched it. The gas station woman survived, and she told the cops who you were. Am I right?"

DeGrassio is hardened criminal enough not to be thrown off-guard by Shawn's allegations. But his forehead creases slightly, his eyebrows move down a fraction. "How did you know that?" he asks.

Lassiter backhands him across the face. The stock of his gun smashes into DeGrassio's nose, felling the man with a crunch and a spurt of blood. Lassiter follows him to the ground, landing with a knee planted in the other man's back and a hand wrenching the gun away. "Got you now, you murderous bastard," he snarls triumphantly.

Shawn sags against the doorframe. "Whew," he sighs. "That was impressive, Lassie. Kind of hot, if we're being totally honest here. Good timing, too - I was just about out of observations to spew."

That's when O'Hara appears around the corner of the house at a run. "Carlton!" she exclaims. "Shawn! Are you two okay?"

"Perfectly fine," remarks Shawn. On the ground, DeGrassio moans, his nose leaking blood. It's probably broken, thinks Lassiter with some satisfaction.

What he carefully doesn't think about, as they handcuff DeGrassio and throw him into the back of the police car, is how he froze up. How Shawn could have died back there - hell, he could have died too, if DeGrassio had had a mind to shoot them both at that moment. Lassiter shivers a little and tries to focus on bagging DeGrassio's gun for evidence. It's a standard military M9, war-issue, pockmarks on the barrel probably left by sand and rough conditions in Afghanistan...

Lassiter's thoughts grind to a halt.

What had Shawn said?

_I was just about out of observations to spew._

_This is the gun you had with you in Afghanistan!_

Lassiter looks down at the weapon in his hand and wonders if Shawn could possibly have recognized it in the dark, could have seen the pockmarks left by wear and tear overseas. He wonders if there were other signs, on DeGrassio's person, in the way he stood, that let Shawn know he was ex-military, that he had lost someone in the war...

No.

Lassiter has never believed Shawn is psychic, but to come face-to-face with an explanation like this is an entirely different thing. Lassiter's heart is pounding - either that, or it's stopped. He looks at the gun. He thinks about other times when Shawn's 'visions' could have been just clever observations, expert compilation of data. He thinks about kissing Shawn. He wonders if Shawn knows just by looking at him how torn up Lassiter is about this whole thing. How much he thinks about Shawn. How often he has to stop himself before laughing at one of Shawn's cornier jokes, has to keep himself from smiling at the younger man's eager expression.

This is...he doesn't know what this is. There was a time when he would have been glad to find evidence like this, evidence of Shawn's lies.

I should tell the Chief, thinks Lassiter.

He cradles the gun in his hands for a while longer, then shoves it into the evidence bag, as if he can't stand to look at it anymore.

He should tell the Chief. But he won't. He'll at least warn Shawn first; Lassiter owes him that much.


	8. Whoops! or, Sorry I Lied and Lied and Lied and

On the day DeGrassio is officially convicted of murder, Lassiter sits at his desk and frowns while the rest of the station rejoices at finally putting a major criminal behind bars. Normally, Lassiter would be up there at the front of them, telling the story of how he caught DeGrassio on a dark night and backhanded him into oblivion. But he's too busy thinking about the man's damn gun, and the damn sand pockmarks, and the god damn phrase _"I was just about out of observations to spew."_

He sits at his desk and slugs back hot coffee and burns his tongue.

When O'Hara comes bouncing over to him, he pretends to be fascinated with the computer screen, even moving the mouse and clicking a little for effect. O'Hara stands there, beaming and blonde, and it takes almost a record three seconds for her to realize something is wrong. Her face begins to fall.

"Carlton, what's wrong?"

He looks up, as if noticing her presence for the first time. "Ah, O'Hara. I was just wondering where you were. Would you get me the Lopez files, from the 20th? I think I'm getting an idea of how to track him."

She sighs and puts a hand on the edge of his desk. "You're not fooling anyone. Why aren't you over there, bragging and - "

"Bragging?"

O'Hara at least has the grace to look a little embarrassed. "Not...bragging. Detailing your exploits to the other officers, for the sake of morale?"

A thin smile creases his mouth at that. "Fine. I'm not over there because I'm tired and I don't want to deal with it right now, okay?"

"That's all?" She looks doubtful.

"Honestly, it's ridiculous how often you ask if I'm okay. I am not made of glass, O'Hara."

"I ask because you look sad," she replies frankly.

"Well." He doesn't quite know what to say to that. He knows O'Hara values honesty above all else; he can't look her in the eye and tell her what he wants to.

After a moment, she sighs and takes her hand away from the desk. "I'll get you the Lopez files," O'Hara says quietly, brushing invisible dust off the front of her slacks. "Don't forget you have friends."

He supposes that was intended to be reassuring. At the moment, Lassiter is having trouble thinking of anything but what Shawn will say when faced with the truth. How should he preface it? _I know how you did it._ Too murder-mystery. _I realized something the other day..._ Too casual.

Two months ago, Lassiter would have said _You're a fraud,_ and he would have said it to Shawn's face, after exposing him in front of the Chief and probably the rest of the station, too. Now he feels sick just thinking of confronting the psychic - the fake psychic.

Oh, hell.

He reaches for his coffee again and occupies himself with the pain of his burnt tongue until O'Hara comes back with the files. He accepts them from her wordlessly and spends his morning typing, reading, and trying not to think.

Lunchtime rolls past and Shawn still hasn't arrived at the station. Lassiter is starting to think he's not going to show at all, and that fills him with an odd combination of relief and annoyance. He can't allow Shawn to keep lying to the SBPD, yet at the same time he clings to every second that he can delay the confrontation. He sighs, picks up a report and reaches for his stapler. Then he stops.

"Superman would _murder_ Batman in a fight, dude!"

"You know that's right."

"So then why are you clinging to the idea that Spiderman would do any better? Gus, he's just a scrawny teenager who shoots webs. Superman has heat vision, and super strength, and he can _fly._ " Shawn appears around the corner, ticking off points on his fingers. Guster, beside him, shakes his head and makes a clucking sound with his tongue.

"There's one advantage Spiderman has over Superman that you're not considering, Shawn."

"What?" The two of them are approaching Lassiter's desk, and he feels his heart pound. Shawn looks sidewise at Gus and understanding dawns on his face. "Oh, no, man. You're not talking about - "

"Spiderman is a brother, Shawn. And he would totally come up with a way to beat Superman's ass into the ground."

Shawn sighs, long-suffering. "Gus. First of all, you can't just say Spiderman and expect me to go Miles Morales. You know damn well I was talking about Peter Parker. Secondly, just because Morales is black doesn't mean he's any less scrawny and weakly-powered than white Spiderman!"

"I will not hear this from you, man." Guster sticks his fingers in his ears, to Shawn's apparent outrage. The two of them are still arguing like that when they reach Lassiter's desk and Shawn looks down at the pale-faced detective.

"Hey, what's up, Lassie?" he asks, interrupting himself in the middle of a sentence about the difference between The Ultimate and The Amazing Spiderman. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Hey, have you?" He looks around. "I don't see any, but if there's one way to get spirits to come out of hiding, it's with the help of a certain resident psychic."

Lassiter stands up, shoving his chair back. "We need to talk, Shawn," he says stiffly.

"Okay," agrees Shawn, ignoring Guster's look of concern at his side.

"Alone."

Shawn blinks. Lassiter isn't too distracted to realize that this sounds like a stereotypical break-up conversation, but given that they have never been together and that he's about to expose Shawn as a fake, he thinks he'll let it pass.

"Okay," says Shawn again, after a pause.

Lassiter gives a sharp nod. "Records room," he says, and stalks off in that direction.

Thankfully, the records room is empty, like Lassiter expected it would be. He and Shawn take up opposing positions in the Xs, Lassiter with arms crossed, Shawn fiddling with a yo-yo he's produced from somewhere. It feels like it should be an epic showdown of sorts, a triumphant moment for Lassiter, but instead it just feels sour and kind of awkward.

Lassiter clears his throat. "So," he says.

"Listen," Shawn interrupts. "If this is about...you know. This," he gestures between the two of them, "Then I'm just gonna say that if unfrosted Miniwheats isn't working for you, I'm totally open to - "

"I know you're not psychic," blurts Lassiter.

Pause.

"Well, agree to disagree," says Shawn. He's rapidly shifted gears; his voice is less serious, more joking. He throws the yo-yo towards the ground and snaps it back up with a jerk of his wrist. "You've been saying that for ages. But honestly, Lassie, we both know that's just denial on your part. How long has it been, a year? How many cases have I solved? A lot. You're gonna have to admit that I'm here to stay."

"I _know,"_ repeats Lassiter.

This time, Shawn actually laughs before speaking. Lassiter has never noticed before how much humor acts as a panic mechanism for Shawn. The younger man's smile is too broad, too mocking. His yo-yo throwing is almost frenetic. "Come on, Lassie," he starts. His voice is too high-pitched for banter.

It almost hurts, to say the next thing. But Lassiter does it anyway, because he can't bear to watch Shawn try to laugh his way out of this. "It's all just observation, isn't it?" he asks. "You tried to explain, when we first questioned you. You said it was something about...reading guilt. The actions of the guilty man, the nervous tics he had, gave him away to you. Before you started lying, you tried to tell the truth, and that's all it was. You look at things and see more than the rest of us. That's it, right?"

The yo-yo slaps into Shawn's palm and he grips it, stops it. The records room is quiet. Lassiter takes a step forward, and Shawn takes one back, his shoulder blades brushing against shelving. He won't meet Lassiter's eyes.

"What's it like?" Lassiter asks, anger creeping into his voice now. "How does it feel to stand in a room full of police officers and know that you're one-upping them, that they're all blind to your lies? Is it _fun,_ Shawn? Is that why you do it?"

"No," mumbles Shawn, but he still won't look up, and Lassiter has had it. Months of frustration come bubbling up and he takes another step forward.

"What gets me," he continues, "Is how you got Guster into all this. He seems like a law-abiding citizen. But I guess that's part of what makes you so good at this; you don't just lie, you manipulate. You dragged Guster into your scheming and you dragged the whole station into your ridiculous antics, and you laughed the whole time!" He takes a deep breath. "Is that why you kissed me?"

"What?" Shawn's head snaps up. "Lassie - "

"Stop. Stop calling me that."

Shawn looks as though he's swallowed something sour. "Lassiter," he tries.

"It's all just a joke to you! A funny joke you're playing on the hardworking officers at this station, and a joke on me. Well guess what, Shawn?" He wishes he could say Spencer, but that distance has been denied him; Shawn has insidiously wormed his way into Lassiter's mind, and he can't close that door anymore. "Playtime's over," he spits. There's a rushing in his ears. "I can show the Chief exactly how you solved this last case through observation alone, and I bet that in hindsight most of your victories can be unraveled the same way. Obstruction of justice. That's a felony, _psychic."_

"Please." Shawn blinks. They're so close, Lassiter can feel his breath. If Shawn were to tilt his head back and lean forward, their lips would touch. "Please, Lassie." And he does - he tilts his head back. He inches forward, just a bit, and his eyes flutter shut, lashes fanning out against his skin. His lips touch Lassiter's, just briefly, just for a moment.

Lassiter steps back, abruptly, and shoves against Shawn's chest with one hand. The fake - the fraud, the liar - slams into the shelves behind him and winces. For once, he looks utterly vulnerable, all humor and joking sarcasm ripped away from him.

"Don't," says Lassiter, his long fingers splayed over Shawn's shirt.

"I..."

"Got something to say?" Lassiter stares hard at Shawn.

"I have to ask you..." Shawn gulps. "Not to tell the Chief," he finishes weakly.

Lassiter pulls his hand away. He doesn't know what he was looking for Shawn to say, but he knows it wasn't that.

He also doesn't trust himself to answer, so he leaves Shawn standing there, clutching a yo-yo in one hand and with his back pressed against the X files.

And no, that's not a reference, or a joke. Lassiter doesn't do jokes.


	9. Because...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is shorter/took me a little longer than usual; I've been swamped with work lately, and I also went to a con!  
> Thanks for reading, and hope you enjoy.

He doesn't tell the Chief.

He doesn't know why. It itches at him, every time he steps past her office. It would be so easy to knock, to go inside and tell her the truth.

Shawn Spencer is a fraud. Lassiter has never hesitated to say this before, but now, when victory is within his grasp, he clenches his fists and shoves them in his pockets to keep from knocking.

And that itches at him too; why is he doing this? He _hates_ Shawn. He tells himself this when he wakes up every morning and finds himself thinking of Shawn's teasing smile and the way he flutters his eyelashes when he thinks he's being coy. He tells himself whenever the station feels empty without a certain boisterous presence. Yes, Lassiter definitely hates Shawn, so why does he miss him when he stops showing up after their confrontation?

A week passes. It feels like the longest week Lassiter has worked in a long time. He snaps at O'Hara, snaps at McNab, almost snaps at Chief Vick before he stops himself.

When Shawn finally does come back, it is overcast and gloomy outside. Lassiter is holding a dead man's shoe in his hands and squinting at it. "Tread matches the footprints from the other crime scene," he says loudly. "Size fits, too. Yeah, our vic was definitely at the first murder." He hands the shoe off to an officer with short-cropped brown hair and a pattern of bright freckles. "Now," he mutters to himself, "Why is he dead?"

It's surprising, actually, that he isn't interrupted. In fact, he gets the entire crime scene processed and photographed in about an hour and a half without anyone bursting into his thoughts or invading his personal space. It's almost unbelievable and Lassiter actually feels a little worn-down by the tedium of it all. He's never noticed before how boring it is to process a crime scene, or how much paperwork has to be filled out.

Somewhere before Lassiter interviews the witnesses and after he yells at a careless forensics officer, Chief Vick ducks under the tape and joins the throng of officers around the body. Lassiter is just heading in her direction to give a general report on what's happened when he happens to glance over her shoulder and see a head of thick brown hair and a pair of bright eyes.

Shawn grins, but it seems thin and a little crooked. Lassiter scowls. The smile drops from Shawn's face.

"Detective?" Vick asks, folding her arms. Lassiter has come to a stop about three yards away from her. "Is there something more interesting going on over there, or...?"

"Shawn," growls Lassiter, and he stalks right past the Chief. As he makes his way towards the fluorescent tape at the edge of the crime scene, it does occur to him that at least Shawn hasn't just barged in. That's a point in his favor, right?

He's probably just afraid of being arrested.

"Hey, Lassie!" says Shawn. Lassiter notes that he looks paler and more nervous than usual, and also that Guster is nowhere to be seen.

"What the _hell_ are you doing here?" he snarls, with more venom than is strictly necessary.

Shawn looks a little taken aback. "I'm here...to help?" He glances away, fingers clenching on air.

"Bullshit," snaps Lassiter, and now Shawn really does look worried.

"Look, Lassie - "

"I _told_ you to stop calling me that."

"Look, Mr. Macho Head Detective. I know...I lied. I lied a lot, and it was probably illegal."

"Probably?" Lassiter lets out a sharp bark of laughter. "It's a felony, Shawn."

 _"But,"_ emphasizes Shawn, "Since McNab hasn't showed up at my door in tears and asked to arrest me yet, I can only assume you haven't told the Chief."

Now it's Lassiter who can't meet Shawn's gaze. He grits his teeth.

"Why not?" asks Shawn.

He doesn't know. He has no idea why not. Surely the smarmy bastard deserves it. Remember him smiling, remember him joking over corpses and making the entire police department look like fools.

At the very back of Lassiter's mind, there's a festering idea that he refuses to recognize. He shoves it down and tells himself he doesn't know why he doesn't expose Shawn - because if _that_ is the answer, he might as well turn in his badge right now.

"You shouldn't be here," he says aloud.

Shawn shrugs. "No more than ever."

Lassiter should arrest him right there. He should pinch cuffs around Shawn's wrists, a little too tight, and grin when the younger man winces.

He doesn't.

He walks away, because he can't seem to stop doing that. The Chief sees Shawn behind him, and she calls him in to consult on the crime, and Lassiter wants to shoot something every time Shawn's hand darts up to his temple.

He doesn't. He's getting very good at self-restraint, isn't he?


	10. Sweet Lady Justice

When Lassiter is feeling down, or when the emptiness of his house gets to him - which is far too often - he tends to frequent a bar on the corner of Jefferson and Monroe, a bar with dim lights and bartenders that don't nose into your business. It also has high-quality scotch, and these three things are all Lassiter really wants out of a bar. It's not like he's an alcoholic, but on not-so-rare occasions he has been known to drink a few too many glasses of scotch in an attempt to forget his problems.

Tonight, the topic of mental contention is Shawn Spencer. Primarily, why Lassiter hasn't turned him in yet.

He doesn't have much of an argument, honestly. He's gone through it all too many times before. Shawn is a liar and a fraud. Lassiter is a detective. He should tell the Chief, but he never does, and in the impersonal space of the bar he can admit to himself that there is a reason behind this. And oh hell, he doesn't want to think about it, but he has to eventually. Has to lay it out in words, even if it's just to himself. Lassiter has never been one for dishonesty.

He - oh, _damn_ \- he thinks he's attracted to Shawn Spencer.

Lassiter chases _that_ bitter revelation with the last of his scotch and sets his glass down a little too heavily, waving a couple of fingers to the bartender for a refill.

He should have admitted it to himself earlier, honestly, but the fact of the matter is that Shawn has been a thorn in Lassiter's side for so long that he didn't really notice when that feeling changed from irritation to attraction. Especially since Shawn is still annoying as hell. And yes, he definitely should have noticed it when they started kissing, but...well, he doesn't have a good answer for that one.

What had he been thinking?

"Sure, smooch it up with the most immature of your colleagues and expect everything to go on as usual," Lassiter mutters to himself. At some point the bartender has refilled his scotch, and he takes a drink. A warm feeling spreads across his chest with each swallow. "You're an _idiot,_ Carlton."

"Did someone call for an idiot?" For a moment, Lassiter thinks he has conjured Shawn out of his own conflicted thoughts, and then when he looks to his side and sees the not-psychic sliding onto the barstool next to him, he decides the truth is much worse.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Lassie," berates Shawn. "That's no way to greet a friend. Especially one as special as me." His grin widens and his eyebrows dart upwards.

Lassiter shakes his head. "No. No. Absolutely not. Get out of here, Shawn. I don't want to talk to you."

"Aw, but I brought a list of conversational topics! Remember that time you said _Shaun of the Dead_ was a silly movie? Well, you better get ready for some serious rebuttance."

Lassiter frowns. "You mean rebuttal?"

"I've heard it both ways."

Lassiter slugs back the rest of his scotch again and prepares himself for a long, terrible evening.

Maybe twenty minutes later, he's looking at Shawn's slightly blurred face and laughing about something. "He did _not,"_ Lassiter says, and Shawn nods emphatically.

"He did! He took every single video game that he could find from my room and _hid them in the forest._ He could have thrown them away, or locked them up, like every other father _ever,_ but no, Henry takes a rucksack full of Mario Kart and Pokémon and he goes straight for the woods. He set up a scavenger hunt like you wouldn't  _believe,_ Lassie. It was actually more fun than the video games themselves, and to this day I don't remember the lesson he was trying to teach me. I just remember following his clues through the forest and Gus falling in a creek because he tried to take a shortcut." Shawn laughs, and he does that thing where the corners of his mouth turn a little downward and his eyes close and Lassiter has a sudden moment of sobriety in which he thinks _What the hell am I doing?_

Shawn is still laughing as Lassiter tries to sit up straighter and school his features. It's tricky, because the room is rotating slightly and there's a sort of glow around Shawn's face, but he manages.

"Dude, wait 'til I tell you about the stray cat!" Shawn slaps a hand on his knee and opens his eyes. His grin fades, however, when he sees Lassiter's stiff expression.

"Why are you here?" Lassiter asks. Shawn opens his mouth to respond, but Lassiter cuts him off. "Honestly. I know you didn't come to joke about your dad and watch me drink too much." He grimaces at the glass before him, mostly empty except for a few ice cubes.

Shawn heaves a breath. "Well...I guess I thought we should talk."

"Talk." Lassiter eyes him with distrust.

"Yeah, Lassie, talk. Remember that? The thing people do when they're not avoiding each other?"

"You _lied,"_ says Lassiter. Shawn waves a hand.

"Yeah, I did. You got me. I lied about being psychic, and I lied about having seen Grease sixteen times - it's actually twenty. But I didn't lie about kissing you, Lassie. As Shakira says, these lips don't lie."

Lassiter feels bewildered. "It's hips."

"What?"

"It's 'Hips Don't Lie,' Shawn. The Shakira song."

"I've heard it - "

"No!" Lassiter exclaims a little too loudly, then repeats it in a lower voice. "No. You haven't heard it both ways, and this is a serious conversation we're having. You can't just throw Shakira references in."

"Says who?" asks Shawn with a grin. Lassiter frowns at him, and he sighs. "Fine," he relents. "I just want to say I always knew you were a Shakira fan."

Lassiter grits his teeth together. The rest of the bar has resolved into a sort of ambient blur, with Shawn as the only item in focus against its backdrop. He knows this will probably be a problem if he wants to make a sudden exit, or if Shawn's presence becomes too onerous to bear. For now, though...it might be the scotch talking, but Lassiter is willing to hear Shawn out. He shifts on his stool and rests one elbow on the bar.

"Alright," he says, letting the Shakira thing slide. "Explain yourself."

Now it's Shawn's turn to look confused. "Explain myself? Uh, what's to explain? We macked on each other, man. We had a total lip-locking vibe going. We brought it together, French-style - "

"Okay," interrupts Lassiter, mostly for the sake of _not_ hearing whatever kissing euphemism Shawn comes up with next. "Where is this going?"

Shawn shakes his head. "Uh-uh. You asked your question, now I get to ask mine. Why didn't you tell the Chief?"

Lassiter's thoughts dart back to his earlier introspection. He wonders what he's supposed to tell Shawn. _Yes, I've compromised the ideals of my profession because I am physically attracted to you and wish I wasn't. However, your personality could not be further away from my interests and I would like you to leave me alone and preferably stop pretending to be psychic. Just because we kissed...on several different occasions..._ Oh, for the love of sweet Lady Justice. He's too drunk for this.

"It doesn't matter why I didn't tell the Chief," is what he finally settles for. "Just...I won't. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I won't tell her."

Shawn looks relieved, behind the fuzziness that's obscuring Lassiter's vision. "Oh. Good. I mean, not that I thought you would..."

 _You should tell her yourself,_ Lassiter wants to say. Maybe he would say it, if he was younger and more idealistic. But the truth is, he knows Shawn won't tell Chief Vick - and he also knows that if Shawn did, he would definitely lose his job and possibly be arrested. As much as Shawn's antics and disregard of the law annoy Lassiter, he has to admit that the man does solve a lot of crimes. And he usually gets the right guy. So Lassiter keeps his mouth shut and takes another swallow of scotch.

"We can't do this," he says finally.

"Do what? Have a conversation without it deteriorating into insults and foul moods all around? Because I hate to break it to you, Lassie, but that's what we've been doing for the past forty minutes."

"No. We can't do _this."_ Lassiter makes a sort of motion with his hands that he doesn't fully understand himself. Shawn, sarcastic bastard that he is, mimics it.

"I dunno, I think I've got that down. Maybe if you rotate your cuffs a little more - "

"Oh, for God's sake!" explodes Lassiter. "Would you stop being a clown for just one minute and listen to me?"

Shawn blinks. Thankfully, his hands stop moving.

Lassiter leans forward, the effects of the scotch making him lean a little further than he intended. "We can't. Do. This," he enunciates carefully. "The...kissing. The friendly conversation. Any of it. I don't like you, Shawn, and I know you don't like me, so let's cut the crap and get on with our lives." He starts to lean back, satisfied with how he's laid things out, but then Shawn's hand shoots out and grabs his shoulder.

"No," hisses Shawn, and Lassiter's surprised to see genuine anger in his eyes. "You don't get to keep saying that. You don't get to kiss me, you don't get to act like maybe something's finally going to happen between us, and then toss it all out the window like it was nothing. We're _past_ the whole psychic thing - " He seems to see an objection coming and barrels on, " - At least, far enough past that it doesn't count as an excuse anymore. So what _is_ your excuse? You have to maintain a reputation for being mean? You've always hated me, so you gotta keep it up, just for the sake of emotional permanence? God, Lassie, you're such an _ass!"_

It might be the alcohol, but Lassiter feels like their faces are very close together. He's getting that feeling again that he did last time, before they kissed, and he doesn't want it to happen. He's trying to fix this. And the only way to fix it is to end it, right? Relationships don't work. Relationships with people you hate _especially_ don't work. And even though Lassiter hasn't had a truly hateful thought about Shawn for probably four or five months now, not even when he found out he wasn't psychic, he's not sure what else to feel.

Shawn's been talking this whole time, and Lassiter hasn't been listening, just sort of watching his lips move and thinking about the hangover he's going to have tomorrow. "You don't get to decide if I like you or not, either," Shawn is saying, "Because maybe I do. You ever think of that? You're as thick as a bowl of oatmeal, Lassie - I've been using an arsenal of bad pickup lines on you since we met and you just think it's my way of trying to tick you off. Seriously, are you the most oblivious man on the planet?"

Lassiter mumbles something along the lines of "I don't think so," but he's not sure if Shawn hears him or not. Either way, suddenly Shawn's hand on his shoulder is pulling him further, and now their faces are definitely only inches apart. Lassiter thinks he should pull back. He also thinks he should kiss Shawn until all their problems go away. He's not sure which is the better answer.

"I. Like. You," Shawn emphasizes, much like the way Lassiter enunciated his words earlier. But Shawn sounds, if not only less drunk, a lot more sure of what he's saying...and that makes Lassiter kind of anxious. He realizes that while they'd been kissing and joking and worrying about each other, neither had ever said anything along the lines of this.

It feels serious. Lassiter doesn't like that.

"What about...cereal?" He racks his brain for the stupid analogy Shawn had given him. Cheerios? No...something about wheat. Wheaties? Maybe Wheaties, that's a pretty bland cereal.

It's too late now, though, because Shawn has already pulled away from him and carried on with the conversation. "Oh, the whole unfrosted Miniwheats thing? Yeah, well...since you seemed determined to stay oblivious, I thought I'd take advantage and kiss you as many times as I could before you decided this might actually be a serious thing and shot me down. Look, I made it to four!" He grins, a little weakly.

"You...like me," Lassiter repeats, trying to wrap his head around it. Shawn sighs.

"Yes, Lassie-pants. I like you, weird gun obsession and all. God, even the whole 'Justice is Everything' shtick is kinda cute. I'm in deep, man. Boy, I hope you don't remember this in the morning," he adds as if it's an afterthought. "At least, not this part."

"Um."

"Well. You're drunk, we've had an illuminating conversation, and when you see me tomorrow you'll probably have a headache and be back to wanting to arrest me for the whole psychic thing. So," Shawn asks brightly - Lassiter will never get used to his sudden mood shifts - "Want a ride home?"

"Uh." He's not feeling very eloquent at the moment. "No thanks, I can - "

"Don't worry, Lassifrass. I won't take advantage of you in your time of weakness." He winks. "Although I will say I like the cut of your new slacks. Yowza."

"Please don't ever say that word again."

"What? Yowza?" Shawn links an arm through Lassiter's and starts guiding him to the front of the bar. "Don't worry, Lassmaster. I wouldn't dream of it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, O'Hara is still out there believing Lassie has a dog...I'll get there, I promise! I didn't just throw that in there without meaning! But right now our dear detective has more important things on his mind, don't you think? ;]  
> Also, I'm sorry for all of Shawn's terrible nicknames at the end of this chapter and I take 100% responsibility for them.


	11. Making Up and Making Out

"Lasers! Space! Warp factor three, Captain!" shouts Shawn, standing atop a desk. As Lassiter lets the door swing shut behind him, Shawn continues: "Phasers! Interspecies sexual tension!"

"Star Trek!" cries O'Hara.

"Yes, yes - we're getting closer!" Shawn's right hand is raised, hovering next to his eyebrow. His left hand thrusts out in front of him, as if grabbing for something just out of reach. His eyes are squeezed shut. "But I'm also getting...anger! Daddy issues!"

McNab suddenly perks up. In the crowd gathered around Shawn, the gangly young officer towers above the rest. "Star Wars!" he exclaims, and Shawn's eyes snap open.

"Yes! Star Wars," he says, and drops his left hand. "But with...running. Physical exertion - I'm getting physical exertion. God, I'm tired. My heart! Why is my heart beating so fast?" He grabs at his chest, looking panicked. Lassiter takes a few steps further into the station; Shawn still hasn't noticed his presence.

"That's incredible!" exclaims one of the officers, a woman with olive skin and a wide, almost goofy grin. Lassiter thinks her name is Simmons. "I ran a 5K this weekend, and afterwards I took my son to a Star Wars convention! You really are psychic."

"Thank you, I know," grins Shawn. He sticks his hands in his pockets and turns, about to step off the desk. His eyes meet Lassiter's and he blanches.

Coincidentally, it's at that exact moment Lassiter realizes whose desk Shawn is standing on.

"Shawn!" he barks, and several worried faces turn in his direction. The crowd begins to scatter as Lassiter strides through it, bumping into McNab as the clumsy officer struggles to get out of the way. "Get off my desk right this instant!"

Shawn steps off the edge of the desk and drops to the floor, pulling his hands out of his pockets for balance. Once he's stopped wobbling, he throws his arms in the air dramatically. "Stuck the landing!" he crows. "You should be proud, Lassie - all my childhood gymnastics lessons have finally paid off."

This is _not_ what Lassiter needs today, not when he has a headache and a vague memory of talking to Shawn last night, at the bar. He wishes he could remember what they'd talked about. "What do you think you're doing?" he growls.

Shawn shrugs. "My job."

"Your job is to help solve crimes, not impress the populace while standing on my desk! Besides, those weren't even good observations. The 5K run and the convention are written on Officer Simmons' desk calendar," Lassiter points out scornfully.

"First of all, her name is Statton. Second of all," and Shawn glances around before leaning in to say this part, "I thought you said you'd let the psychic thing go! You can't just go around blabbing about my methods, man."

Lassiter frowns. "I agreed that your pretense was necessary if you were to keep solving cases for the police department. You do good work," he admits with some reluctance. " _This_ is just you showing off. I can't condone that."

"Why not? It raises morale!"

"It's not raising my morale."

"Would you rather it raised something else of yours?" retorts Shawn. He grins cheekily.

It takes Lassiter a moment to realize what Shawn is implying, but when he does he feels blood rushing to his face. "Just leave me alone," he mumbles, and pushes past Shawn to sit down at his desk.

For a few blissful minutes it seems like Shawn actually has gone away. Still, Lassiter doesn't have much of an opportunity to enjoy this time, because his temples are throbbing and no matter how much coffee he drinks, there's still an awful taste at the back of his throat. O'Hara stops by and lets him know that the Roberts case is on file now, if he wants to check it for accuracy. Lassiter mumbles something in agreement and heads for the records room.

It's quieter and dimmer in there, which is nice. The clamor of the main room was not doing wonders for Lassiter's hangover. He rummages through the R files, looking for Roberts and muttering to himself.

It has to be mark of how much time he's spent around Shawn that when a figure in a plaid shirt and loose jeans springs up at his side he manages not to punch anything. Still, it startles him, and he turns on Shawn almost before the beaming man can get a greeting out.

"Hello again, La - "

"What do you want?"

Shawn sighs. "Listen, man, clearly you remember less of the great conversation we had last night than I was hoping for. Allow me to recap: this is a thing." He gestures between the two of them. "We're dating. Possibly engaged. Your mouth may have proposed to mine while we were making out."

"Stop it."

Shawn laughs. "You don't have to look so worried, dude! Relax, we're not engaged. We're not even dating, although if you asked me if I wanted to go see Guardians of the Galaxy I wouldn't say no. But that's not what I came in here to talk about."

"It's not?" Lassiter feels like this conversation has gotten away from him in the worst possible way.

"No, it's not. I'm here to argue my case for psychicness."

Lassiter sighs. This is part of what he does remember from the night before; the grudging agreement to let Shawn continue with his charade. "As I said earlier," he says, "It annoys me to no end that you're going to keep lying to the police department. But it's necessary. What's _not_ necessary is you _divining -_ " He makes air quotes. " - Officer Stallion's off-duty hobbies."

"Her name is Statton, man."

Lassiter almost retorts that he's heard it both ways. He manages to stop himself, and for a long moment considers his life choices with some horror. Finally, he manages to say, "Whatever. My point is, you're not helping anyone that way."

"I'm not hurting anyone either!" argues Shawn.

Lassiter steps closer to him. "I don't think you understand. I don't want you to keep doing things like that. You're making a fool of the station, and you're making a fool of yourself."

"I'm not making a fool of myself," says Shawn, then stops. He looks at Lassiter. Lassiter stares back.

He's not sure which of them moves first, but suddenly they're kissing, with none of the hesitation or surprise of the previous times. Lassiter's hand grips the back of Shawn's neck, his fingers curling through brown hair. Shawn's hands are clenched on the lapels of his suit jacket, and ordinarily Lassiter might protest that he's wrinkling them but right now Shawn's lips are smashed against his and he's totally okay with that. Lassiter hasn't kissed anyone like this since Victoria - maybe not even Victoria, he thinks briefly -

And then there's a clicking sound, as of a door unlatching, and light spears through into the darker room.

Lassiter and Shawn freeze, like two deer caught in the metaphorical headlights, and Lassiter curses whoever laid out the records room so that the R section was clearly visible from the door. He turns his head, slowly, towards the door, and prays that he is not about to come eye-to-eye with the Chief.

The figure standing in the door is indeed a woman in a pantsuit, and panic flares up in Lassiter's chest before he realizes the hair is too long, the face too rounded to be Chief Vick. No, it's O'Hara. Her eyes are wide and her mouth forms a perfect 'O' shape.

"Oh, my God!" she exclaims.

As if her words have broken whatever effect was holding them together, Lassiter and Shawn spring apart. "This isn't what it looks like - " starts Lassiter, scrubbing the back of his hand across his mouth, just as Shawn says "This is exactly what it looks like!" The two of them babble over each other for maybe ten seconds before O'Hara cuts them both off.

"Be quiet," she says sharply, and the two of them trail off. She seems to have regained her composure after her original shock, and now her face is an unreadable mask. Shawn bites his lip.

"Listen, Jules," he says, "Don't be mad, okay? Just because Lassie and I were making out without you doesn't mean you can't join in now!" Lassiter elbows him in the stomach and he doubles over, wheezing.

This was a terrible idea. This was a terrible, terrible idea. Lassiter waits for O'Hara to laugh, to spin on her heel and leave, to make a disgusted face. Being caught kissing Shawn Spencer in the records room is an awful way to go, he thinks despairingly.

"I can't believe you two," says O'Hara, and Lassiter begins to melt inside before she continues, "You couldn't have told me?"

"Uh...what?" says Shawn, sounding just as surprised as Lassiter.

"I mean, come on. I thought we were pretty close friends, Shawn. The amount of flirtatious jokes I've had to put up with from you should have at least earned me the right to know you're dating _Lassiter!"_

"Oh, we're not - " begins Lassiter, but O'Hara turns on him.

"And you, Carlton!" she exclaims. "We're partners! I understand that you're a very private person, but you could at least tell me these things before I have to walk in on you and Shawn in the records room! Seriously, is there anything else you've been keeping from me that I should know?"

"Um." Lassiter shifts uncomfortably. "I lied about the dog."

O'Hara's brow crinkles with incomprehension. Shawn gets it before her, and breaks out into a fit, laughing so hard he has to grip the shelf next to him with one hand to stay upright. That's when O'Hara gets it, too, and then she's giggling, and then they're all laughing their heads off in the semi-darkness of the records room. It feels good to laugh like this.

Finally, after everyone has gained control of themselves again, O'Hara takes a deep breath and speaks. "It is kind of adorable, though," she says, and that only sets Shawn off again.

"Adorable?" asks Lassiter, with some incredulity.

O'Hara is too busy laughing to answer.


	12. The Woes of a Man Named Guster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm, so I think this is as good a place as any to end this fic! Thanks everyone for your support, and for showing me that there are still plenty of people in this fandom! c:  
> I hope you guys enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

"So you're telling me," demands Guster, "You decided to date _Lassiter_ and not _tell me about it?!"_

"We're not - " begins Lassiter, but apparently Guster is not nearly finished with his hysterical outburst.

"I mean, I was there when you kissed him during your - " He glances at Lassiter. "Uh, vision - but I thought that was just another of your stupid stunts! You _told_ me that, afterwards...Oh my gosh, Shawn, you lied to me?"

"Oh, no, not like that," Shawn protests.

Guster cuts him off with a sort of incoherent sobbing noise. The man does look awfully upset, thinks Lassiter. Maybe telling him was a bad idea. After all, he and Shawn aren't even dating.

"Listen, if you two are going to reevaluate your friendship, could you not do it in my car?" he asks, glancing in the rear view mirror. "I do have work to do."

Of course, no one pays him any heed. He sighs and rests one hand on the steering wheel.

In the back seat, Shawn is emphatically patting Guster on the back. "Come on, Gus, buddy," he coaxes. "If you want, I'll fill you in on _every_ detail of my love life from now on. Is that what you want, huh?"

Even in his stricken state, Guster manages a violent shake of the head.

"Gus, you know that if I had told you anything, you would have nagged me so hard, it would put your mother to shame. 'Don't kiss Lassiter! He'll shoot you!'" mimics Shawn in a high-pitched voice. Guster glares at him as he continues, "Don't be ridiculous. You know Lassie is far too cuddly to ever really shoot someone."

Lassiter casts another skeptical glance into the mirror. "Uh, Shawn," he says, "You do realize I have in fact shot multiple people."

"Ah, but not people you kissed."

"Fair enough," he concedes wryly. "I don't see I would have _any_ reason to shoot you; it's not like you've committed a felony and tried to hide it from the police, right?"

Guster whimpers. Now it's Shawn's turn to glare, in Lassiter's direction. Clearly Guster, who is sniveling and in danger of getting tears on Lassiter's upholstery, hasn't yet been informed that Lassiter knows about the whole 'psychic' thing.

"I just can't believe this," he mumbles tearily. "I mean, I thought you were into Juliet! She's much more your type - no offense, Lassiter."

"None taken." Lassiter peers out the window, trying to catch signs of movement at the café across the street. It's sunny out, and people strolling along the sidewalk keep blocking his line of sight.

"Don't worry, Lassie," Shawn chimes in. "My type _definitely_ includes tall, manly detectives with super blue eyes...and you own handcuffs, so it's a done deal."

"What?" asks Lassiter.

"Handcuffs?" repeats Guster, with some alarm.

Shawn ignores them both and blusters on: "Anyway, Gus, Jules already knows, so - "

"You even told Juliet before me?" exclaims Guster. "Unbelievable, Shawn!"

"Well, it's not like it was a conscious decision to tell her...more like she walked in on us making out in the records room," confesses Shawn.

"In the records room? Ew, too much information." Guster makes a face.

Lassiter focuses on the people walking past outside, deciding to ignore the two clowns in his backseat for a few minutes. From the tone of their mindless babble, it sounds like they've gotten over their issues, although Guster still sounds a little ruffled.

"Dude, Val is the _best_ and I won't hear otherwise," Shawn is insisting when Lassiter tunes back in. Guster tries to respond, but Shawn shakes his head and talks over him: "Dude, here. I've got five bucks - go buy yourself some peanuts from the peanut guy. On me, for all the emotional trauma I've caused you."

"You know _that's_ right." Guster snatches the crinkled bill from Shawn and climbs out of the car. Lassiter and Shawn watch him go in silence.

"Hey, Lassie," Shawn says finally, once Guster is around the corner of the block. "Back at the station, I didn't actually hear about any stakeouts being planned for this week. So what are you doing out here?"

A smile tugs at the corner of Lassiter's mouth. "I was beginning to think you'd missed that observation, Shawn. Getting soft?"

"You wound me," cries Shawn, looking mock-offended. The two of them get out of the car, Lassiter pausing to pull his coffee out of the cup holder and take a sip. "So, where are we going?"

"Chinese sound good to you?"

"Always," grins Shawn. His eyes meet Lassiter's, sparkling, and Lassiter would kiss him, but he doesn't want to make a scene. Public displays of affection aren't his thing. So he swings the car door shut just as Shawn closes his, and they stroll along the sidewalk.

After a few steps, Shawn pipes up. "Is this a date, then?"

Lassiter forces a casual shrug. "Is that what you want to call it?"

Shawn grabs the coffee from his hand. "Oh, absolutely," he says, and takes a swig. They walk, and it's a nice day, and Lassiter, for the first time, dares to consider the idea that this might work.

"Oh my God," says Shawn, "This coffee is disgusting."

Lassiter snatches it back from him. "Seriously," Shawn continues, making a face, "I've told you this before, man. It's practically poison. Sweet, sugary poison. This stuff'll go straight to your arteries, you know, and how do you think I'd feel if you died of a heart attack just as I finally got you to take me on a date? It took effort to get here. I don't want that to go to waste just because you refuse to drink your coffee without an entire pitcher of cream in it."

"Shut up," says Lassiter, but he's smiling.

"Make me," retorts Shawn.

Lassiter thinks Santa Barbara will forgive him if, just this once, he makes a public display.


End file.
